What She Doesn't Know (6 page)

Tammy walked back over to him, as though he were a magnet whose force she could not resist. She took Brian’s hand, rubbing each finger. “You were supposed to be king that year.” She said this to Brian, and Rita wasn’t sure if it was an answer to her question.

“King?”

“Yeah, you know. Each krewe selects a king and queen to preside over Mardi Gras.” At Rita’s blank expression, she added, “The krewes are the social clubs that put on the parades.”

“Oh, right. The people who throw stuff from the floats. Bacchus, Rex.” She recalled only that much from hearing others talk about it.

“It’s more than that. It’s a huge honor to those lucky enough to be asked. Once the king has been chosen, the pageantry goes on all year long. The king sponsors a ball. It was all Brian talked about. That’s when it happened.”

“What?” Rita asked after a moment.

“You’ll have to ask either Brian or Christopher. They’re the only ones who know. The day before the parade, Brian had some kind of accident. That’s what they said, anyway. The next time I saw Brian, a few days later, his shoulder was bandaged, but he wouldn’t talk about it. And after that, Christopher became the pariah. Not that he’d ever been the favorite son anyway, you could always tell that. He was the one who got into trouble, sneaking into blues bars, hanging out with the wrong crowd. But after the accident, he was on the S-list for sure. He left town when he graduated a few months after that. I didn’t see him again until a year later, at Mr. L’s funeral. I overheard Brian telling him that he didn’t belong there. He didn’t come back for Mrs. LaPorte’s funeral three years later, and hasn’t until now.” She squeezed his hand. “Brian was always the worthy son.”

The prodigal son returns. Too bad no one wants you here.
Rita remembered that from the images Brian showed her. Then the regret.

Tammy had been talking to Brian’s hand the whole time. She obviously had feelings for him. Rita couldn’t help wondering how deep those feelings went, and how resentful she would be if she’d known that he’d withdrawn from her and connected with an unknown woman in Boston.

“Where are you staying?” Tammy asked, shaking Rita out of her harrowing thoughts. “Sorry, it’s a habit, habit, habit.”

It took a moment for Rita to refocus her thoughts. “Habit, ha—?” She stopped herself from copying Tammy’s tendency to three-peat words.

“Of working at the LaPorte. Whenever I meet someone from out of town, I always want to know where they’re staying.”

“I’m staying at the Ashbury. It was the only hotel my travel agent could find.”

Tammy’s cell phone went off, a pleasant chiming sound. She eyed the display. “Can’t these people handle anything on their own?
 
No, I must remember what Brian always says: In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.”

“Actually Albert Einstein said that.”

Tammy waved away the notion. “But you know how Brian was, always quoting expressions like that. Don’t you?”

Rita shook her head. She couldn’t remember him quoting even one.

Tammy answered the phone with, “I’m on my way back,” and hung up. She planted a kiss on Brian’s cheek. “Winners never quit. Quitters never win.” She looked at Rita. “Whatever happened…it’s really not your business. If you weren’t involved with him, that is.”

Oh, but she was involved. “I have a professional interest. And he was a friend. I want to know why a man who had everything to live for would throw himself off his roof,” she said, using Christopher’s earlier words.

“Maybe it was an accident. That makes the most sense.” Tammy wasn’t smiling when she said, “Have a safe trip home.”

Rita tried to sort through her thoughts after Tammy left. Whoever pushed Brian must have had a personal reason to do so, considering they’d also gone after her. Whoever it was had access to Brian’s e-mail.
 

“Like a hacker,” she said, thinking of Christopher. Or an ex-girlfriend. It could even be shady business dealings that Brian became involved in. In one of their last conversations, he’d hinted at something exciting he was involved in, something he wanted to share with her. He’d asked her if she liked video games. When she’d admitted she was terrible at them, he said he knew one she’d be good at, though he hadn’t expanded on it. She thought maybe he was investing in a game company.

If only he could tell her, the way he’d shown her that he’d been pushed. She reached out to touch him, hoping he could show her more.

A young nurse with violent red hair pushed a cart into the room, saying in a singsong voice, “Excuse me. Time to give our boy a bath.” Her skin was smooth, eyes a brilliant, phony green as they surveyed Rita. Her smile and even her voice sounded phony, too, all thick and whispery. “Did I hear you say you met this gentleman on-line?”

“Were you listening to our conversation?” Rita asked, noting the woman’s nametag: Aris Smith.
 

Aris laughed breezily. “Honey, ya’ll weren’t saying anything
that
interesting.” She let out a long sigh, tilting her head as she looked at Brian. “I think it’s a wonderful place to meet a loved one. Shame you met your man in person too late.”

“It’s not too late.” Rita’s voice sounded as defensive as she felt.

Aris shrugged shoulders that looked padded. “Well, of course not. Forgive me. I’m a floater, you see, just did a few months on the AIDS floor. That’s where they treat the patients in the final stages of the disease. When they get there, there isn’t much hope. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

For a reason she could not name, Rita felt reluctant to go. Aris pulled a wet sponge from a basin and squeezed it. Her nails were painted green, gold and purple, the colors of Mardi Gras. Tammy’s were painted those colors too, but Rita couldn’t remember the design. Probably a lot of women who could grow their nails long had them painted up for Mardi Gras.

Aris stopped mid-movement. “Are you just going to stand there and gawk?”

“Er, no. No.” Rita walked out of the room, feeling her face flush. She was still caught up in this surreal world of New Orleans, and of the realization that two nights weren’t going to be enough to find out what had happened to Brian.

Aris glanced out of the doorway at Rita Brooks who was waiting by the elevator. She’d only been coming by to do her usual check on Brian’s condition, to see if there were any signs of him coming out. Rita had stopped her dead cold. Rita, here in New Orleans. Rita, asking questions about who might have pushed Brian.
 

Aris had altered her appearance and changed into the nurse’s uniform to shoo Rita out of the room. She ran the sponge down the length of Brian’s skinny leg. “There you go, sweetheart. Doesn’t that feel good, good, good?” She chuckled at the use of the three-word repeat, but her smile didn’t last long. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “What’s she doing here? I knew I should’a made sure she was gone dead. She was asking way too many questions. You said she didn’t know about Xanadu. Well, we’ll just see about that.”

The numbers on his monitor increased with each word she spoke. He was afraid, and helpless to do a thing about it. She at least got some satisfaction from that. She glanced out at the elevators again. The doors had just closed.
 

With her singsong voice, she said, “I won’t let anyone threaten our special place. Someone’s got to protect it. It’s the only place I ever felt like I belonged. Like I was wanted. ‘A savage place, as holy and enchanted as e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted, by woman wailing for her demon-lover!’ When Coleridge wrote that, he dreamed of me. Just like I know you dreamed of me once.” The numbers kept increasing. “It’s your fault. You brought her in. Now she’s going to have to go and die.”

Aris walked to the stairwell. The elevators were slow; she had time to sprint downstairs to the lobby, changing clothing and hair as she went. By the time she emerged from the stairwell, she was unrecognizable as the nurse. Rita was walking out the automatic doors, and Aris followed her to a bland rental car. Bland was good. Bland could change contacts and hair and be someone else.
 

In her own car, she caught up with Rita at the light exiting the lot. She expected her to head to a hotel. Instead, she turned into the police station.

Aris cruised by, her foot lax on the gas pedal as she watched Rita walk inside.

“Don’t panic,” she whispered. “No way can she know who you are. No way can she know anything about Brian’s fall.” But she knew something.

“I’ll just have to kill her. Yeah, baby. Nothing to it.”

CHAPTER 5

Rita waited twenty minutes to talk to Detective Alex Connard. He was one of the detectives who had been called to the scene at Brian’s house several weeks earlier. The thought of trying to explain all this twisted her insides like a tornado.

“I understand you have information about Brian LaPorte?” he asked once he’d led her to his desk. He was a slight man, not what she’d expect a detective to look like. He was in his forties, with fine, pretty features and a shaved head.

She took the chair he’d indicated. “I hope you’ll keep an open mind.”

He didn’t commit either way as he looked over the report. “Is Mr. LaPorte still in a coma?”

“Yes.”

“What is your relationship to him?”

“We had an online friendship. I live in Boston. We’d never met or seen pictures of each other. We’d talked on the phone several times.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Romantic?”

“Leading to it.” When he waited for her continue, she said, “I have reason to believe someone pushed him from the roof in an attempt to kill him.”

Connard sat up straight again, his interest level higher. “Why is that?”

Okay, here we go
. “Six weeks ago someone ran me off the road.”

“In Boston?”

“Yes. The person behind the wheel was wearing a Mardi Gras mask, gold with black feathers. That same person pushed Brian off the roof.”

“You were a witness?”

“This is where the open mind part comes in. I want you to know that I’m a professional in the mental health field. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.” His expression was annoyingly neutral as she told him everything. Hearing it made her realize how far out it sounded. “I did some checking on the Internet. This kind of thing does happen.” She handed him copies of the web pages she’d printed out. “You can call the officer who investigated my hit and run. He’s checking to see if a feather was found in the car that hit me.”

She couldn’t tell what he thought so she forged on. “Did you check Christopher LaPorte’s alibi at the time of Brian’s fall? He’s Brian’s brother.”

“You think he may have been the one wearing the mask? Says here he lives in Atlanta. He arrived the day after Brian’s fall. We didn’t check his alibi because there was no indication of foul play at the scene. No signs of a struggle, as you described, nor of an intruder. The only thing out of the ordinary was his tie tack we found on the deck floor. That in itself wasn’t strong enough to suggest anything sinister. Had Brian mentioned trouble with his brother?”

“He never mentioned his brother at all. From what I understand, there’s bad blood between them. When I arrived at the hospital this evening, I overheard Christopher saying he’d put Brian in the hospital before and something about everyone close to him ending up in the hospital…or worse.”

That got Connard’s interest. “When did he say this?”

“Just a little while ago.”

He had her repeat what Christopher had said and wrote it down. “We’ll check into this. But the rest”—he picked up the sheets she’d handed him—”I have to tell you, it sounds pretty crazy.”

“At least promise you’ll check into it.”

“I’ll call Officer Potter in Boston, ask about your accident. And I’ll check out Christopher LaPorte. If I find something that even begins to corroborate your story, I’ll look further.”

If.
Well, she was grateful for that, and for his hearing her out. “Thank you. I know you can only do so much without evidence. But what about keeping Brian safe? If this person wanted him dead—”

“They would have already done it. I can’t post an officer at the hospital based on”—he gestured to his notes—”this. We’re already shorthanded going into Mardi Gras.”

She would call the hospital and ask them to keep an eye on Brian. Connard was right; the masked person had plenty of opportunity. He or she was likely waiting to see if Brian survived. He would only be a threat if he regained consciousness. She got to her feet and gave him her business card. “Thank you for whatever you can do.”

She walked out into the chilly night air and headed toward her car. By the time she reached it, her hands were numb. The cold wasn’t the reason she shivered. She turned around and scanned the well-lit parking lot. She should be perfectly safe here. Why did she feel the eyes of evil watching her?

He watched Rita get into her car and drive away. What had she told the police? He followed her through the streets of the French Quarter where she took a long, convoluted route to her hotel. He would have suspected she was making sure she wasn’t being followed except that she kept stopping to look at street signs.
 

The Ashbury was a small, elegant hotel at the edge of the Quarter. Rita parked in the small lot adjacent and carried one large bag into the lobby. He walked in a few minutes later, lingering behind her as she checked in. She had glanced back at him when the door had opened but only gave him a cursory look before returning to her check in. There was only one desk and one clerk. He was exceedingly patient.
 

“You’re staying with us for two nights,” the young woman behind the desk confirmed. “You’re leaving before all the fun.”

“It’s all I could get a room for. Unless you’ve had a cancellation?”

The woman shook her head. “Afraid not. We’re booked from tomorrow on through Mardi Gras.”

Two nights. How much trouble could she cause in just two nights?
 

Enough.
 

“All right, Miss Brooks, you’re in room 315. Go out that door, and you’ll see stairs to the right and the elevator to the left. Your room is on the third floor and faces north into the courtyard.”